


Running to Stand Still

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:59:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, it's messy as hell...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running to Stand Still

The first time it happens, they’re fighting. Sam’s pissed at Dean for something dumb—some half-assed comment Dean can’t even remember making now—and he’s tired and cranky and just wants Sam to shut the fuck up already and so he grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him. He’s sure that’ll send Sam running for at least an hour, but instead the joke’s on Dean because Sam tosses him facedown on the bed and yanks his jeans halfway down his thighs and shoves right in—no prep, no lube, and it fucking _hurts_ , but Dean’s still doing his best to spread for it against the unyielding denim, and panting out the most obscene, filthy things he can think of, and he comes a few minutes before Sam manages his own climax.

Sam tries to kiss him afterwards. He tries to curl his long body around Dean’s in the bed and Dean shoves him and bites out, ‘get the fuck off,’ and stomps out of the room, pulling his pants up as he goes.

They don’t talk for a week: not about the really fucked up accident _(yes, officer, I slipped and fell on his dick)_ and not about anything else either. And then on the following Wednesday, Dean tosses a balled up pair of socks at Sam’s head and tells him to pack his shit because he found them a job in Colorado.

It’s almost a month before it happens again. This time Sam starts it, although Dean makes damn sure he finishes it: hands planted flat on his brother’s chest while he moves up and down on Sam’s ridiculous cock and croons like a porn star. Sam’s face is screwed up through the whole thing, like he’s in pain, but the way his hands are latched onto Dean’s hips like manacles _(bruises for fucking weeks)_ tells a different story.

Sam’s too wiped to do much more than grunt and roll over before he falls asleep afterwards, but he comes up behind Dean in the bathroom the next morning and puts his arms around him and gets a black eye for his trouble.

The third time, Dean comes home from a hook-up _(Candy, who was everything that name advertised and then some)_ and Sam ambushes him. Sam throws him up against the wall of their room and shoves a hand down his pants and starts jacking Dean off before his dick can even get in the game. Sam keeps trying to kiss him in between growls— _goddamn asshole, smell her on you, you fucker_ —and Dean keeps ducking him _(although he doesn’t try to get away, hips working as he pumps his hardening cock through Sam’s oversized hand)_ and eventually Sam settles for sucking on his collarbone.

Later, when Sam’s finished and they’ve both come at least twice, Dean wanders into the bathroom and looks in the mirror, trying to remember how to breathe. He looks like he’s been mauled by a rabid dog or something, scratches everywhere and the whole left side of his neck coloring in a spectacular bruise. Dried come is flaking on his stomach and his ass feels funny as he hobbles over to the shower: raw and too open.

After his shower, Sam crawls into bed with him and Dean flips his brother onto the floor— _ow, Dean, what the fuck_ —before taking the comforter and heading out to spend the rest of the night in the car.

It’s Dean’s fault the fourth time, but in his defense he’s drunk enough and horny enough that a sheep would look pretty tempting. Sam actually tries to tell him ‘no’, like they have a choice here: like Dean wouldn’t cut his fucking hands off if it would stop this from happening. Dean’s already buck naked as he strips Sam _(for someone who doesn’t want to do this, Sam’s being pretty fucking helpful with that)_ and Sam keeps babbling on about this being fucked up and he can’t take it anymore, Dean, God how can he let Sam shove his cock up his ass when he won’t let him kiss him, or hold him, or touch him at all without leaving bruises?

It pisses Dean off, Sam putting everything on him like that, and he growls, “I’ll give you a fucking _kiss_ ,” and then blows Sam so good that he all but rips Dean’s hair out when he comes. While Sam is still safely out of it, Dean crawls up his brother’s body—hot and sweat-slick and smelling strong and clean and familiar—and buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck. He jacks himself rough and uncompromising and comes with a jagged, hurt moan.

The wash of semen across his stomach seems to revive Sam a little and he reaches for Dean, eyes all soft and tearing up, and whispers Dean’s name like he’s praying, and Dean rolls off and stumbles into the bathroom to throw up.

After that, Dean sort of loses count.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There’s no one moment when he stops running.

He doesn’t wake up one day with his chest light and his thoughts sure. He doesn’t pull over in the middle of the afternoon to kiss Sam good and deep and thorough the way Sam obviously wants him to. He sure as hell doesn’t get down on one knee and declare his unending devotion, and if Sam’s expecting any girly shit like that, then he’s barking up the wrong tree.

No, Dean stops with a slow deceleration that’s so gradual he doesn’t really notice it happening.

When they walk down the street, Dean unconsciously hitches his stride to synch up with his brother’s.

Sam’s hand brushes his when he passes the salt and Dean doesn’t jerk away.

Sam sits with his arm up on the seatback in the car, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, and Dean lets him.

Dean’s slower to move after they fuck: once lies there long enough to feel Sam run light, ghosting fingertips over his aching hole before the panic and the vicious, futile anger send him stumbling into the bathroom on numb legs.

It’s the snowball effect, only in reverse, and when Dean finally realizes what’s going on he doesn’t know how to gain that breakneck momentum back and it terrifies him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Almost a year after they start whatever it is between them, Dean stops talking during sex. There's no particular reason for it: he’s just too tired—long day, long hunt, and Sam’s been giving him that fucking _look_ —to maintain that steady, biting slew of words.

Without all the ‘yeah, baby, fuck me hard’s, it feels different. _Sam_ is different, and although they’ve had each other in the dirtiest, filthiest ways Dean could imagine _(and he can imagine a lot)_ , the way Sam touches him makes Dean feel like a goddamned virgin. His hands are gentle as they play over Dean’s body, and when he when he slides into Dean all slow and smooth, he whispers things like ‘beautiful’ and ‘so good’ and ‘love you.’

Instead of telling Sam to shut up and fuck him already the way he sort of wants to, Dean cants his hips back and fists his hands in the sheets and just _breathes_. He’s crying, he realizes, and feels like a goddamned pussy for it, but Sam makes soothing, hushing noises and pulls out with a care that leaves Dean feeling brittle. Dean whimpers at the loss, but Sam only pushes him over onto his back, nudges between his legs, and slides in again.

He shakes his head, heart hammering in his chest because, despite all the debauched things they’ve done to each other, they haven’t ever done _this_ before: Sam pressed up all close along Dean’s front and moving over and in him with gentle, undulating rolls of his body. Sam’s hands cupping his face, Sam’s thumbs wiping away the tears as Sam stares into his eyes with so much tenderness that Dean wants to bite something.

It doesn’t feel like fucking anymore, is what, and if it isn’t fucking then Dean doesn’t know what it is. God, he doesn’t know how to do this: doesn’t know what Sam _wants_ from him. Or maybe he _does_ know and just can’t stand it.

Dean’s muscles bunch as he readies to fight his way free, or possibly just to _fight_ so that this will change into what it’s supposed to be: into that rough, angry rutting that isn’t about him and Sam, isn’t about two brothers who are too close and too fucked in the head to know better, isn’t about _anything_ but scratching an itch.

Sam’s too close, though—right up inside his guard—and at the feel of Dean tensing beneath him he murmurs, “Dean,” and “don’t,” and “let me,” and it’s too fucking late to start running again _now_ and Dean shudders and goes limp.

When Sam kisses him, the world doesn’t explode the way Dean half-expects it will. Dad’s ghost doesn’t pop up to hurl abuse and God doesn’t strike them down with a lightening bolt. Dean’s insides do their twisting thing one last time because this is _wrong_ , and it’s never going to _stop_ being wrong no matter how much he wishes it would, and then he lets go of that as well and kisses back.

“I love you,” Sam tells him when he comes up for air what feels like hours or days or years later. “God, so fucking much.”

And Dean says, “Yeah,” and kisses him again.

Later, with Sam twined around him and sleeping soundly, his head pillowed on Dean’s chest, Dean contorts his neck into a stiff, painful position so that he can press his lips to his brother’s temple.

“Love you too,” he confesses: a secret that’s been rattling around inside of him for over a year and riding him harder than Sam ever did.

In his sleep, Sam smiles.


End file.
